Mr Tipplys

Mr Tipplys

The City Hotel has been transformed into a shiny new CBD bar.

Mr Tipplys house of consumption and conviviality.

Tipply.
There was a time when the name was, quite literally, on the tip of everyones tongue.
Uttered reverently at the roulette tables of Monte Carlo.
Exhaled by swooning Hollywood starlets spending winter in the Alps.
A captain of industry!, some would exclaim.
A Rhodes scholar...
An Olympian...
An intrepid aviator
A gentleman of the highest order!
Oh, TIPPLY!
And yet, there were those who fell silent upon hearing this much-referenced moniker.
Their thoughts, like the Martini in their hand, made slightly murky by the coiled rind of scandal. There was rumour of unlawfully commandeered clippers, brimming with Opium, in the Malacca Straights. Of fixed horse races and Vegas hotel rooms requiring a complete overhaul after soirees with none other than the rat pack.
And, of course, heartbroken women.
A string of them if the whispers are to be believed. Spanning decades. Almost as if Tipply had discovered the elixir of youth and then used it with reckless abandon, to prolong his campaign of unashamed roguery.
Its perhaps fortuitous then that, like a dog-eared playing card in an illusionists hand, Tipply was, one Autumn in the early 1990s, no more.
Gone.
Vanished.
There were just two further sightings.
Once at the funeral of Formula 1 legend Ayrton Senna.
And then, for the final time, in a Jacuzzi at Hugh Hefners 85th.
Of course, the legends remain.
As do several title deeds to establishments scattered around the globe still bearing the name Mr. Tipply, Esquire.
Of which, this fine house of consumption and conviviality is proudly one.

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The City Hotel has been transformed into a shiny new CBD bar.

Mr Tipplys house of consumption and conviviality.

Tipply.
There was a time when the name was, quite literally, on the tip of everyones tongue.
Uttered reverently at the roulette tables of Monte Carlo.
Exhaled by swooning Hollywood starlets spending winter in the Alps.
A captain of industry!, some would exclaim.
A Rhodes scholar...
An Olympian...
An intrepid aviator
A gentleman of the highest order!
Oh, TIPPLY!
And yet, there were those who fell silent upon hearing this much-referenced moniker.
Their thoughts, like the Martini in their hand, made slightly murky by the coiled rind of scandal. There was rumour of unlawfully commandeered clippers, brimming with Opium, in the Malacca Straights. Of fixed horse races and Vegas hotel rooms requiring a complete overhaul after soirees with none other than the rat pack.
And, of course, heartbroken women.
A string of them if the whispers are to be believed. Spanning decades. Almost as if Tipply had discovered the elixir of youth and then used it with reckless abandon, to prolong his campaign of unashamed roguery.
Its perhaps fortuitous then that, like a dog-eared playing card in an illusionists hand, Tipply was, one Autumn in the early 1990s, no more.
Gone.
Vanished.
There were just two further sightings.
Once at the funeral of Formula 1 legend Ayrton Senna.
And then, for the final time, in a Jacuzzi at Hugh Hefners 85th.
Of course, the legends remain.
As do several title deeds to establishments scattered around the globe still bearing the name Mr. Tipply, Esquire.
Of which, this fine house of consumption and conviviality is proudly one.